Marrying Up

by Jackie Rose

  “Just needed to break the tension, I guess.”

  “We’ll pretend it never happened. Let’s do a few more takes. Just try and relax. And remember the guidelines we talked about. And for heaven’s sake, don’t mention money! It’s incredibly inelegant,” she says as she stalks off the “set” to take her place beside the cameraman.

  “Okay,” I agree. “But it’s kinda hard to relax when this is, like, the one impression they’re going to have of me.”

  “Would you like half a Valium?” she offers.

  I look hopefully to George, whose wrinkled forehead and downturned eyebrows relay a stern “No.”

  “No, thank you,” I tell Ms. Chase. “But it was nice of you to ask.”

  After the whole hooker fiasco, George and I tried to be more discriminating in our choice of both evening wear and hunting grounds. We’d staked out a few hotel bars—most notably, the Mansion on Delaware Avenue, the only place in town where I could imagine a really wealthy person might stay—but we just ended up getting to know the bartender better than we wanted to and drinking away half a paycheck’s worth of Harvey’s Bristol Cream in about a month. Plus, George gained nearly five pounds from the nuts at the bar (I’m sure the alcohol had nothing to do with it). On Saturdays and Sundays, we walked Linus, her fat beagle, in circles around the Mercedes dealership on Main Street near her mothers’ house. Once, we even skipped work and snuck into a hedge-fund conference at the Hilton in Niagara Falls, where we learned that most professional financial planners work with other people’s money, not their own—a fact confirmed by their willingness to embrace the most revolting assortment of cold salads in lunch-buffet history.

  All this work and nary a nibble at the line, yet alone a dinner invitation. It seems Buffalo just doesn’t have rich men growing on trees, if you can believe that. We needed a way to kick things up a notch. And that was where Moneyed Mates came in.

  George had stumbled across a scathing indictment of their operations in an article Mrs. Perlman had suggested she read in The Advocate regarding the appalling state of contemporary American heterosexual mating habits. I was surprised George had even mentioned it, frankly, since she’d made it clear on numerous occasions that she was just chaperoning me on my little husband-hunting excursions. But it didn’t take long for the truth to come out.

  Professor Bales had dumped her. Or she had dumped him. (Whatever.)

  “You were so right,” she’d sobbed into the phone a week before we found ourselves at Moneyed Mates for our preliminary interview. George doesn’t break down often, but when she does, there’s no mistaking it.

  “I was? About what?”

  “I wanted to prove you wrong about Stuart, so I asked him outright, ‘How many other women are you seeing?’ and he was like, ‘I don’t know’ and I was like, ‘Don’t you have any feelings for me after all this time?’ and he was like, ‘Of course I do,’ and I was like, ‘Feelings that originate above the waist?’ and he was like, get this, ‘Don’t worry—I respect you as a person.’”

  “Whoa, slow down…”

  “That’s what he said—‘I respect you as person!’ And I thought, what the hell’s that supposed to mean? I respect you as a person?”

  It sounded like she’d already had a few drinks. Otherwise, I would have suggested going out for one. “Jeez… So what do you think he meant?”

  “Well, that’s what I wondered,” she continued. “So I said, ‘I’ve been taking it for granted that you respect me as a person, Stuart, so thanks for nothing. But if you’re bothering to mention it, are you trying to imply that you don’t respect me as a woman?’ and then he was all quiet for like the longest time and then he said, ‘Well, since you never asked me before, I assumed you didn’t want to know the answer, but now that you’re asking I guess you want to know so I’m not going to lie to you,’ and I was like oh God, do I want to hear this? But he just kept talking and he said, ‘I guess you should know that I’m never going to want any more from our situation here because if I’m going to share my life with only one person, then I need that person to be on par with me.”

  “What kind of prick would say something like that?” I wondered aloud, silently amazed that she had never actually asked him where they stood before this.

  “Exactly what I was thinking! Like, he doesn’t even consider what we had a relationship. He called it a situation. Can you believe that?”

  “No, I meant about you not being on par with him.”

  “I’m getting to that, Holly. So I was like, ‘What do you mean?’ and he said, ‘You’ll never be a great writer, George. There’s skill, and there’s talent, and you don’t have enough of either, although if I had to choose, I’d say you have more skill than talent. In any case, that’s something I would definitely need from a life partner, and I’m sure you can respect that.’”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Yeah, so of course I was like completely stunned. But you know what I said? I said, ‘Not only do I have more talent than skill, but I have enough of both!’ and I hung up and I haven’t called him back and I never will again and I hate him and he’s an asshole and I just feel like I wasted so much bloody time on him! I’m such an idiot, Holly. God, I’m so embarrassed. I want to crawl under the covers and die. What was I thinking? How come I didn’t see it? No—you know what? I’m not embarrassed. I’m angry. Yeah, angry! I deserve better than that…don’t I? Oh God! Would you listen to me? Of course I deserve better. But I’m still such an idiot…”

  And so on and so forth.

  I comforted her the best I could, considering she’d skipped work and had been crying in bed alone all day, drunk on Manishevitz, the only booze her mothers ever kept around the house.

  “First of all, you’re not an idiot,” I told her. “You’re human and I love you. And even though I admit I may have teased you about him a little—”

  “A little?”

  “Okay, a lot… But I also hope you know that I know you wouldn’t have been with him unless you were getting something positive out of the relationship, too. And there’s nothing wrong with that provided you move on as soon as you see things aren’t going in the direction you want them to. Which is exactly what’s happening right now. So, that’s all this is, okay? You’re making the right decision at the right time for you. You have absolutely nothing to feel bad about.”

  I couldn’t help but wonder at what it finally took for George to dump this guy. Not the fact that he was a lecherous old coot. It didn’t bug her that he treated her like crap, that he’d stepped out on her countless times, that they’d done nothing but order in pizza and screw in his shitty old “loft,” which was really just a one-bedroom near the water with the walls knocked out. No, it took him dissing her as a writer. Never mind that he’d been dissing her as a woman every time he failed to show her the respect she deserved.

  “I know you’re right, Holly. Thanks. I just wish I’d figured that out sooner, you know?” she sniffed once she’d regained her composure. “I feel like I need to make up for lost time.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. You’re starting fresh now and that’s what’s important.”

  “I mean I really feel like I need to do something.”

  “You do?”

  “Yup. What was it we swore in Creative Writing 101?”

  She knew exactly what it was we’d sworn. “That we’d both be famous writers by the time we’re thirty.”

  “And how old are we?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “I’ve been unwilling to rock the boat,” she said with a hiccup. “I can see that now.”

  “Are you sure you’re ready for this, G? Can you handle it?”

  Was that the theme from Rocky drifting in through the open living-room window?

  “I’m ready.”

  “It is possible the rumors are true, you know—that money may not buy happiness. We need to be prepared for that contingency…”

  She exhaled slowly, deliberately. “I know. But
maybe we owe it to ourselves to find out for sure.”

  “Well, you know I think we do.”

  I didn’t want to pressure her before she was ready, but the thought of having a partner in crime made my heart leap with anticipation and joy.

  “As the girlfriends of millionaires,” she slurred, “…not wives, but girlfriends, okay?—it sounds less evil to me—so as the girlfriends of millionaires maybe we could finally evolve beyond the mundane fiscal responsibilities that have been drying up our dreams…”

  “Now you’re getting it!” This was the drunk, reckless George I knew and loved.

  “And if it doesn’t work out, so what!? We’ll just chalk it up to experience, which we like so totally need anyway in order to be good writers!”

  “You go girl!”

  “Because any life worth living is packed with one ginormous mistake after another!”

  “Well, let’s not get carried away…”

  Jill, who’d been sitting next to me on the couch, watching Nova and eating barbecue soybeans, raised an eyebrow at this point. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “George’s professor dumped her.”

  “I can hear you,” she wailed. “Tell her I dumped him!”

  Jill grabbed the receiver. “The best way to win him back is to ignore him. Don’t call him, no matter what. He’ll be burning for you within two weeks. Then all you have to do is—”

  “Give me that!” I wrestled the phone from her hand. “Ignore her, George. She’s completely insane when it comes to men. She’d rather date a complete jackass than spend a single Saturday night alone.”

  Jill stuck her tongue out at me and got up to leave. “Is that any worse than stalking delivery boys and bicycle messengers?”

  “I’ll deal with you later,” I told her. “Now, George, listen to me. You know you’re better off without him and all that crap. I’m not going to waste my breath going over every single reason why, because I’ve been doing that for years and you haven’t listened to a word I’ve said—”

  “Don’t worry, Holly. You don’t have to convince me. I’m bruised and I’m hurt and I’m mad at myself, but I’m also so totally over him. I just need to take a day or two to cry the whole thing out of my system, you know? But I’m fine with it. Really, I am. In fact, I even have an idea that might help speed along my recovery.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. It’s this weird dating service I read about…”

  We arrived precisely on time for our preliminary interview with Ms. Chase. Of course, I’d done a little online research into Moneyed Mates beforehand, just to make sure it was a legitimate dating service and not some sort of escort service or prostitution ring. Happily, it appeared to be a successful international franchise—there was a Moneyed Mates branch in virtually every major city in the United States, Canada and Europe. Granted, it did seem a little odd that rich guys were apparently having as hard a time finding us as we were finding them, but I was willing to take the chance.

  Before George could commit to the process, however, she needed to make sure that the most politically incorrect business operation either of us had ever come across was undiscriminating in its treatment of women.

  “Ms. Chase, why is your corporate slogan ‘Wealthy Men for Willing Ladies’? Don’t you have any Wealthy Ladies for Willing Men? And what exactly do you mean by ‘willing’?”

  But it would take more than George Perlman-MacNeill’s vacillating brand of feminism to throw a professional like Violet Chase for a loop. “In all my years in this business, I can honestly say that I’ve never had a single wealthy woman come to me looking for a less well-to-do mate. You can infer from that what you will. Oh, and by ‘willing,’ we mean ‘willing’ to settle only for the very best.”

  George shifted in her chair, unsure what to make of this new information. “Why don’t rich people just date each other? Why would they want to date normal people?”

  I turned to Ms. Chase. It was a valid question.

  She looked out past us into the hallway, uncrossed her perfect legs and leaned forward across her big glass desk. In a low whisper, she said, “The truth is, many wealthy men find wealthy women intimidating, in exactly the same way that many men of modest means find a lady who earns more than them an almost unattractive quality.”

  “That’s awful,” George groaned. “And completely outdated, sexist and totally offensive.”

  “Don’t be naive,” I told her. “Not all guys are as enlightened as we wish they were. It’s actually kind of sad that so many of them still don’t feel like real men unless they’re the ones bringing home the bacon.”

  Ms. Chase nodded in agreement. “We’re here to provide a service for those men who enjoy deriving power from their paychecks and are self-aware enough to know it. The beauty is, nobody’s taking advantage of anybody when it’s all out in the open like it is here at Moneyed Mates. There’s no game-playing, no deception, just an arrangement beneficial to both parties. And for those who prefer a partner of similar means, there’s Mutually Moneyed Mates in the suite next door. You might have seen it as you came in. So, have we answered all your questions?

  “I have one. Why come here if they can probably have their pick of gorgeous babes?”

  “She’s very self-conscious about her chest,” George explained. “It’s bordering on insane obsession, actually…”

  Ms. Chase glanced at my torso and zeroed in on the hard sell. “First of all, our clients know that many of the women who come to us are extremely attractive, such as yourselves. Plus, it’s overly simple to think all wealthy men want is some trophy wife or blond-bimbo type with large breasts. Granted, some of our clients have gone that route in the past, but now they’ve come to realize they want a lasting relationship with more substance.”

  “Someone they can bring home to mother?” George suggested.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes. And to be completely honest, very few of our clients come from old money. Most are businessmen, shrewd investors or savers…we’ve also had a few lottery winners, that sort of thing. And these men, these ‘millionaires next door,’ as I like to call them, often come from modest backgrounds and want to share their lives with someone whom they feel they can relate to on an essential level.”

  George seemed pleased. “So Playboy bunnies are out, then.”

  “Our clients are wise enough to understand that once wealth enters the equation, nobody just likes them for them anymore, perhaps with the exception of the people they knew before. The money is always there, prejudicing people in their favor. It would be the height of egotism to believe otherwise.”

  I looked up from my pad. She was giving me great stuff here, and damned if I was going to miss a single word of it.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking notes,” I told her.

  “She’s writing a book,” George added.

  “You’re not going to quote me, I hope,” she said sternly, adjusting the flaccid bow at the collar of her silk blouse and tugging down her smartly tailored jacket. Apparently, Ms. Chase thought she was the only one who’d figured out a way to turn the workings of the male mind into a moneymaking venture, and she didn’t want the secret getting out.

  “Don’t worry,” I assured her. “This is just a bit of preliminary research.”

  She leaned back and continued. “So ladies, why do you think these wealthy men come to Moneyed Mates?”

  “Sex?” George offered.

  Ms. Chase shook her head. “They can get that at the local singles bar, Ms. Perlman-MacNeill. Or yacht club, for that matter.”

  “Privacy?”

  “No.”

  “Desperation?”

  “No.”

  “Coupons?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “We give up.”

  “I’ll tell you.”

  “Promise?”

  “Your curtness is unbecoming, Ms. Hastings, as is your sarcasm.”


  “She’s very moody,” George explained. “It’s her cycle.”

  “Sorry,” I said, stifling a laugh. “I’m just anxious to hear what you have to say.”

  Ms. Chase smoothed back her too-black hair and continued. “What drives them here is the one quality they all have in common—pragmatism. They assume that most women will be after their money, anyway, so they just want to be in control of the game. They’re lonely, they work long hours and they have neither the time nor the inclination to play the dating game.”

  We nodded. It all made perfect sense. There was just one more question left to ask.

  “So…does this really work?”

  “If you don’t get a date within two months, we’ll refund your membership dues minus the video sitting fee of two hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “That seems fair, I guess. George—what do you think?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “We’ve had thirty-three marriages since we opened eight years ago, and plenty of serious relationships,” Ms. Chase added, sealing the deal. “Our receptionist Florence will provide you with a preparation packet on your way out.”

  “Well, I guess we don’t have much to lose,” George concluded.

  Exactly what I was thinking.

  After handing over our credit cards at the front desk and scheduling our next appointment, Ms. Chase popped her immaculately groomed head out of her office.

  “Ms. Hastings? Ms. Perlman-MacNeill? Before you come in to tape your personal profiles, I’ll remind you both to give some serious thought as to what you bring to the table. Be prepared to articulate exactly what sets you apart from the crowd if you want to catch a wealthy gentleman’s eye. Remember, ladies, everyone wants to date him…but what would make him want to date you?”

  I’m still unsure what my angle should be. How can you possibly convince someone—especially someone so highly sought after—that you’re the one for him in under two minutes of bad lighting and a background of fall foliage? I imagine it would take a whole lot longer than that, especially in my case.